


running like a lonely soul on fire

by marquis



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-compliant violence, F/F, Fluff and Angst, cali and beck fall in love and then some other things also happen, including but not limited to incineration and also just. balls flying all over. the baseball kind.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:10:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26420122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marquis/pseuds/marquis
Summary: “Do you think Castillo and Cali gossip about the rest of us?” Jacob asks one day, while they’re sitting in the stands eating lunch. “Like, they seem to be able to understand each other somehow. What do you think they’re saying?”The two in question are on the field, tossing a ball back and forth. Castillo is mostly stationary, but he’s putting Caligula through the works: diving, rolling in the grass, leaping up to catch pop-ups. It’s impressive, and it also looks exhausting.“I don’t know,” Beck says. “Castillo is pretty straightforward, I doubt he would be talking about any of us. They’re probably just swapping the best places to get sunlight, or something.”“We live in a garden. There’s sunlight everywhere.”(A story about the Boston Flowers, and love, and loss.)
Relationships: Caligula Lotus/Beck Whitney
Comments: 11
Kudos: 21
Collections: No Single Flower Wilted





	running like a lonely soul on fire

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work for the cultural event of blaseball. I'm relatively new here, so my knowledge of the history is shaky; I got here just in time for Season 6. That being said, I don't necessarily subscribe to following the wiki or discord religiously, so this deviates from the decided narratives in some ways. Be forewarned.
> 
> This started out as a Beck character study and now it's 3:15 in the morning and I'm just full of love for my Flowers. So proud of them for making it to the playoffs!! I hope you enjoy... whatever this is.
> 
> Title from "Nirvana" by Elliana.

The sun is a curse.

Well, that’s not really fair, Beck thinks, pushing her cap up to wipe away sweat. It’s hardly the sun’s fault that she is the way she is. It’s just that she hates days like this, when she has to wear a long-sleeved shirt under her jersey despite the heat and it feels like she’s melting away.

Beck is tempted to call for a quick water break. They aren’t playing a real game, so she doesn’t have to wait for an inning to end. But there’s still half a season to go and she doesn’t want to waste any time, not when they need to train the new recruit.

It could be worse. She could actually combust. She settles back into a low squat, watching Margarito at home plate as xe readies xirself for the next pitch.

A shadow falls over her.

“Lotus, you’re too close to me,” she says, in what she hopes is a friendly, captainy way. “You’ve got to stand closer to second base.”

Caligula Lotus doesn’t move, shadow dwarfing Beck and hiding the midday sun. Beck stands up and turns to face her, trying to figure out which eye she should look at.

“Listen,” she says, louder than she means to.

In the corner of her eye she can see Chambers turn to watch her instead of throwing the next pitch. The drill is on hold, at least until this is resolved.

“I need to stand close to first base, right here,” Beck says, pointing to the base. “That’s so when Margarito hits the ball, I can tap the base and get xir out. You need to stand close to second, so xe can’t get over there if I screw up.”

Caligula nods. A few of the eyes blink, but nothing else. No movement, no retreat. Beck sighs.

“Play ball,” she says, waving at Chambers. “You’ll understand when we have to make the play, newbie.”

She settles back into a crouch. Despite herself, she finds she appreciates Caligula standing so close; it feels about twenty degrees cooler in her shadow, out of the watchful eye of the sun.

When Margarito lands a hit, it’s a line drive straight for second. Somehow, Caligula manages to snatch it out of the air with the most elegant dive Beck has ever seen. When she looks over, Beck could swear she winks.

\--

Cali is pretty good at what she does. It’s great to have her on the team, even if it’s difficult to have any kind of conversation about strategy. Beck is never totally sure what it is Cali wants to say or contribute, at least at first. But whatever she’s thinking is working out well for the team, so Beck will let it slide.

Mostly, anyway. Sometimes she thinks she’d give anything to know exactly what it is Cali is saying.

“Do you think Castillo and Cali gossip about the rest of us?” Jacob asks one day, while they’re sitting in the stands eating lunch. “Like, they seem to be able to understand each other somehow. What do you think they’re saying?”

The two in question are on the field, tossing a ball back and forth. Castillo is mostly stationary, but he’s putting Caligula through the works: diving, rolling in the grass, leaping up to catch pop-ups. It’s impressive, and it also looks exhausting.

“I don’t know,” Beck says. “Castillo is pretty straightforward, I doubt he would be talking about any of us. They’re probably just swapping the best places to get sunlight, or something.”

“We live in a garden. There’s sunlight everywhere.”

That’s true. Even now, Beck has rigged a sweater as a sort of makeshift canopy over her, providing just enough shade to get by. She’d feel better in the dugout or the locker room, maybe, but she’d feel bad asking any of her teammates to hide out in the dark with her. So many of them rely on the sun to get by. Vampirism has its perks, she knows that, but it’s a real struggle to manage that alongside friends who constantly need to photosynthesize for sustenance.

“You know what I mean,” Beck says, waving a nacho in the vague direction of the field. “There’s got to be some kind of science to it. We have seventy thousand Dunkees in this city, but everyone’s got their favorite one.”

“East Somerville, on Highland Avenue,” Jacob says, without missing a beat. “They’re the only ones who will make the Thick Mint one outside Kid Scout season.”

“So you see my point.”

Inez has joined Castillo and Caligula, picking up a bat off the rack and hitting them grounders. The three of them probably shouldn’t be working quite so hard on a game day, but Beck is enjoying the show.

“I still think they’re talking about us,” Jacob says. “If you and I had some kind of secret plant language, I’d be talking smack about everyone else all the time.”

“Well, Jacob, I’m sorry to say I’d have to ignore you if that were the case,” Beck tells him, smiling as Cali catches a ball and rolls right into a somersault.

Cali stands up to the sounds of smattered cheers from around the stands, all the players spread out to enjoy their off time. She turns to face Beck, though, and bows so low her petals scrape the grass.

Beck gives a little wave, and ignores the feeling of Jacob’s eyes on her.

\--

Party time is a great opportunity to relax and take a breather. Or it would be, if Beck weren’t in charge of the whole team. She tells them all she doesn’t mind – and she means it. Her teammates work so hard all season long, they deserve to get hammered and pass out in the booths of Margaritoville as many nights in a row as they want before it all starts back up again.

Still, it would be nice if she could join them every now and then. Instead, she’s stuck staring at her laptop screen at the bar with Margo and Nic nearby as sounding boards.

“We’re going to have to keep an eye out for Jessica next time we play her. What team is she even on now?” Beck asks, mostly to herself. “We should teach Chambers some new pitches, too. Everyone can hit that weird trick throw.”

“Good luck teaching him anything,” Margo snorts. Xe slides a virgin margarita over to Beck, who silently toasts xir in thanks. “You know Ace doesn’t do new pitches, boss.”

“What if we trick him?” she asks. “We could probably convince him a curveball is some kind of derivative.”

“None of this matters,” Nic tells her, patting her on the back. “It’s splorts! We lost this time after a couple bad plays. It’s hard to strategize when there are actual demons and monsters on every team, you know? We just have to hit the ball and catch it when it comes at us.”

“It doesn’t hurt to try.” Beck knows she’s getting petulant, mostly because she’s frustrated they didn’t even make it into the playoffs. “We were the worst in our division, Wink, that’s unacceptable.”

Nic turns to face her, probably to shoot off a quick retort. His eyes land on something behind her shoulder instead, and his mouth twists into a one-sided grin. “Incoming, Becks.”

A hand lands on her shoulder and she knows instantly that it’s Caligula, hears the light rustling of petals.

“Cali,” Beck says, relieved to have backup, “please explain to these guys why it’s important to do research on your opponents.”

Cali says nothing, which is to be expected. Beck looks up at her, expecting to see the narrowed eyes that generally stand for _listen to your captain-coach-cheerleader-supreme overlord_. Instead, Cali is looking at her. A green, leafy hand reaches out and closes her laptop.

“Hey!” Beck shouts. “I was working on that!”

But Cali is pulling her up out of her chair, swaying to whatever Jimmy Bluffett song is playing on Margo’s jukebox. Her teammates are cheering them on as they move into the fray, and Beck doesn’t hold back her smile.

\--

“Do you think there’s a way for us to talk to each other?”

Beck doesn’t plan to ask it, not really; it just sort of comes out. She doesn’t regret it, even if now isn’t the best time. But what better time to have a serious conversation than the twentieth inning of a game that’s lasted all day, and hasn’t led to a single run?

Cali doesn’t respond. That is, of course, typical. Beck looks up at her, standing too far from second base, and wishes she could hear… anything, really. Any kind of response.

It’s certainly gotten easier. Cali doesn’t have a mouth, or a face, or any kind of vocalization. It’s just her eyes and her petals and her hands.

“I’m not saying I don’t appreciate your presence,” Beck says, and realizes before she even starts that she’s heading toward a rambling train of thought with no easy exit. “I do. It would just be nice, sometimes, to be able to understand exactly what it is you mean to tell me.”

Cali, once again, doesn’t respond. But when Beck glances over at her again, every eye is trained on her face. Cali’s head is tilted to the side, setting her petals slightly off-kilter.

Other people can see this happening. Beck can hear Nic laughing in the outfield behind them, trying to cover it with a cough. It’s incredibly unprofessional to be having this conversation during a _game,_ no less, even if nothing is or has ever happened. God, this is embarrassing.

“You’re right, it’s weird,” Beck says, trying her best to backtrack. “You don’t need to communicate any way other than how you’re comfortable. You’re a great fit for our team, and I appreciate having you here. I didn’t mean to-“

She stops talking immediately when Cali takes her hand. She traces one green finger in quick lines across Beck’s palm, and if Beck didn’t know better, she’d say Cali was grinning.

_Hi._

\--

Beck tries. She tries so, so hard not to lose her cool.

“You could have done _something_ ,” she says, and hates the way her voice cracks. “Why didn’t you help us?”

King is unperturbed. Doubtless he’s heard this same thing dozens of times, from whichever captains or coaches or teammates he’s had before. It’s the first time he’s getting it from Beck, though.

“I don’t interfere with weather during a game,” King says, cool as a freaking cucumber. Beck feels like pulling her hair out. “It would be a dishonor to our team, and to those we are up against. The weather must remain undisturbed during games.”

“Is it _honoring_ our team when you watch other players _die?”_ Beck demands. “They’re Flowers, King! They’re _family._ ”

The rest of the team has left already, or at least she thinks they have. She wouldn’t dare do this in front of everyone else. It’s unprofessional and honestly probably enough to get her demoted, even without witnesses; she just doesn’t care.

“I understand you are struggling, Captain.” King opens his locker, stowing away his mitt and ballcap. His hair is flat against his head. “This is perhaps a matter to be dealt with another time, when emotions are not quite as high.”

“This is a matter to be dealt with _now,_ before we have to lose anybody else,” Beck insists. “I want you to promise me that you will protect our team, Weatherman. I want to know that you’re in this with the rest of us. Because right now, it doesn’t feel like you are.”

Her skin is itchy, her eyes are burning, her hair is a mess. Beck knows she needs to back off and give this all some time, but right now, she needs something to blame. And King could have done something. He could have protected them all. Matheo, Jorge, Isaac, Morrow, everyone. Every time.

King closes his locker slowly, letting the lock cinch shut before he turns to face her. “Do not blame the weather for the actions of the umpires, Beck,” he says, straightening his tie. “And do not blame me for them, either. Some things are beyond even my control.”

He pats her on the shoulder as he passes, even as she shakes him off. When he reaches the doorway, he pauses and lets out a heavy sigh.

“I will miss them, Beck,” he says. “I am a part of the family, and you know that. But I cannot take it upon myself to protect everyone. I’m just a pitcher.”

Beck collapses onto the bench and hides her face in her hands.

\--

The garden is quieter than it normally is in the early mornings, and Beck appreciates the break. After everything that’s happened this season, she just wants some time to avoid the constant questions and the looks of concern from her teammates. They mean well, and she knows that, but she can only take so much attention before she starts to feel a little like she's bursting at the seams.

The sky is cloudy and overcast. Beck can still feel what little sunlight remains prickling against her skin; she’ll end up with a nasty burn later, but it’s hard to care at the moment. Watching teammates turn to ash will do that to a person, she thinks.

They have new seedlings from the nursery. The methodical planting is helping to ease the sense of loss, the hopelessness lingering in Beck’s mind. She gets a little lost in the rhythm of it. _Dig, place, bury. Dig, place, bury._

Caligula finds her before long. She automatically comes to stand at Beck’s back, ready to shield her from the sun even when it’s barely there.

“You should be inside with the team, Cali,” Beck says, without any real heat. “We’ve all had a long day. You’ve earned some rest.”

Cali places a hand on Beck’s shoulder, leaves brushing against her cheek.

“I can’t come yet; I need to get these herbs planted. It’ll only be a little bit longer.”

Her hand leaves Beck’s shoulder. Beck resumes her digging and isn’t surprised when Cali drops down next to her and passes off the next seedling. They work in tandem like that for a while, quiet and tucked away in the back of the garden.

“I wish I could have done more to protect them,” Beck says, when she feels she can get the words out without breaking.

Cali leans against Beck’s shoulder, enveloping her in the smell of lotus flower. Her eyes are closed and a few of her petals are curled in, closed off. Beck can tell Cali is hurting too, and she wishes she could hide away her own feelings and just be the captain everyone needs.

Beck reaches up and strokes Cali’s leaves, fighting to hold back tears. It’s nice to have the support, to have Cali’s strong, sturdy presence beside her; she just wishes it were under better circumstances.

Three of Cali’s eyes flicker open, focusing in on Beck immediately. She reaches up and rests a hand against Beck’s cheek, rubbing a finger under her eye. Beck doesn’t know when she started crying, doesn’t know why she can’t seem to stop.

Cali moves to take her hand, flips it palm up and drags her finger across it.

_We’re going to be okay. I promise._

Beck leans her head against Cali’s, feeling the petals rustle against her skin. She closes her eyes, breathes in deep, and hopes that Cali is right.

\--

Things do calm down, at least for a while. They go weeks without losing anyone, and they even manage to do pretty well for themselves. It’s a surprise, given all the new players to accommodate. Beck can admit she’s gotten a little obsessive, checking the weather up to the minute before every game.

They don’t even practice during eclipses anymore, not if they can help it. Those days are reserved for training inside, doing sprints down hallways and lifting weights. If anyone notices the change, they certainly don’t say anything.

Looking around the training room, Beck misses the old players like a hole in her chest. But she’s still got a whole family rallied around her. That’s worth plenty.

“Hey, Coach Whitney! You have a second?”

Moses Mason is new to the team, but they’re fitting in fine. Already they’ve been adorned with flower crowns and rose wreaths, and a nickname to match. It’s nice to see the team can still find something to be excited about. They don’t get to meet Ace’s kids often, after all.

“Just Beck is fine, Roses,” she says, plucking a leaf out of their curls. “How are you? Are you settling in?”

They smile, and Beck finds it hard not to smile back. It’s like they were made to be on television, with a face like that. Beck wonders if they’re still getting fan mail, all the way out in Boston.

“Yeah, everyone is great,” Moses says, and with a such an air of confidence and optimism that Beck wants to hug them. “You all really like to send bouquets, huh?”

“I think we save the big ones for the celebrities,” she says, and they let out a laugh. “What did you want to talk about, newbie?”

Mason rubs the back of their neck. It’s clear they’re nervous; Beck’s stomach drops.

“Uh, I wanted to ask what you knew about a curse,” he says, although it sounds more like a question. “A few of the guys brought it up this morning, and I just want to know what I’m getting into here. We didn’t really have all that at the Tacos.”

Beck sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. She can only guess at who might have brought it up; it’s all anyone has been able to talk about for weeks, even as she’s tried to push back and tamp it down.

“You know, there was a curse at Flenway. They didn’t talk about that one until it had been happening for years,” Beck says. “We have a few rogue umpires and a bad season, and suddenly everyone starts talking about a curse?”

“Rogue umps, really?” Moses asks, their face falling. “We lost a player to one on the Tacos once. They’re the worst.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve lost six,” Beck says, and it’s bitter on her tongue. “And that’s all we’re going to lose, if I have anything to say about it. Curse or otherwise.”

Moses nods and opens their mouth to say something else, but then a loud crash sounds through the room. Beck hears someone yell about a rogue pitch and, without thinking, transforms. A ball shoots through where she’d been standing and over Moses’ shoulder, landing solidly in a pile of mitts.

Being a swarm of bats is uncomfortable, especially in such a bright and open place. Beck has to flutter up to the rafters to collect herself, both literally and figuratively. By the time she makes her way back down, Cali is standing beside Moses, every eye turned toward the ceiling.

“Is that because we were talking about the curse?” Moses calls out to Beck, and the words echo around the room in a way that’s almost uncanny.

Beck lands on the ground and snaps back to human, feeling out of sorts and dizzy on her feet. Instinctively, she leans against the nearest surface – Cali’s shoulder. Cali’s arm comes up to wrap around her waist.

“There is no curse,” Beck says, trying to project enough that everyone will hear her. “That was because someone decided to practice their fastballs in an _indoor space_ , which is an incredibly misguided thing to do. Welcome to the Flowers, Moses. They didn’t name us for our brains.”

That gets a few laughs, even if they’re forced. Beck can feel the tension leaking out of the room in a slow trickle as people return to their tasks.

Moses grins and nods. “Sounds like my kind of people! Thanks for the talk, Beck.”

Beck watches him walk away, and it takes a moment to realize she’s still leaning against Cali. Cali, who has been completely still this entire time, reaches up to trace letters onto Beck’s arm.

_You okay?_

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Beck says, nodding. “Just tired of hearing about how we’re all destined for a painful, fiery death.”

Cali traces slow circles against Beck’s shoulder for a few moments more, all eyes trained on her. She is fine, really. Or at the very least, she’s going to be. They all are.

\--

The day before the season starts is always weirdly quiet.

There’s plenty of administrative work to do, obviously, all kinds of paperwork and signatures and going over actual game scheduling. Beck has purchased so many plane tickets she’s not even sure she knows where they’re supposed to be tomorrow.

But even with all of that, the garden is empty. She’s always given the team the last day of the offseason for themselves. Everyone is so worked up anyway, it’s likely someone would get hurt if they tried to practice. Better to just let them all hang out at a bar and get a decent night’s sleep before they have to get back to the grind.

But Caligula is here, because of course she is. She’s seated in the corner of Beck’s office with a book in hand. Beck has asked her to go outside and get some fresh air so many times by now she feels like a broken record, but Cali always shakes her head and nods toward the pile of papers still on Beck’s desk as if to say, _I’ll go when you do._

“Where are we going tomorrow?” Beck asks, running a hand through her hair. She’d chopped it short a week or two ago; it’s still an adjustment, and she’s not sure it was the right call. She misses being able to pull it back and away.

Cali stares at her, blinking lazily.

“Oh, that’s right,” she says. “We’re home first. No going anywhere.”

Cali nods and flips her book back open, half her eyes still trained on Beck.

“I know.” Beck pushes away from the desk, leaning back in her chair. “I know, I just – There are so many things that could go wrong, Cali. So many things _do_ go wrong, every time.”

The book snaps closed again. Cali’s fingers come to rest on the edge of Beck’s desk, within reach if she wants them. She doesn’t reach back, not at the moment.

“It could be worse,” Beck says. “Could be an eclipse, I guess. We could be against a team that outranks us, the Pies or the Jazz Hands or, god, the Crabs. Maybe we’ll be okay, I just don’t… I don’t feel ready yet.”

That’s apparently what it takes to push Cali into motion. She stands up and swaps her book out for her glove, motioning toward the door with her head. When Beck doesn’t move, she walks over and grabs Beck’s hand, pulling her out of the chair.

“Whoa, Cali, what the heck?” Beck asks, as Cali leads her through the door and down the hall. “I still have so much to do. I don’t have time to mess around.”

Cali rolls her eyes and keeps walking, dragging Beck behind her. As they pass a rack of bats, she picks one up and hands it over to Beck, ignoring any protests.

They end up out on the field, surrounded by plants buzzing with bees and crickets and wildlife. No one else is around at all, just the two of them standing in the middle of what feels like endless green.

Cali isn’t a pitcher by any means, but she steps onto the mound anyway and motions for Beck to step up to the plate. She’s got a bucket of balls at her feet and she picks one out, stands at the ready.

“Cali, seriously, what is this?” Beck asks.

She throws a ball. It soars over home plate, a wide arc that goes over Beck’s head. Beck just stares at her incredulously; she punches a fist in front of her chest and holds up a finger. _Strike one!_

“Oh my god,” Beck groans, stepping up to the plate. “You call that a strike? You have got to be kidding me. You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with that arm.”

Cali’s petals rustle; she winks one eye at Beck and winds up for another pitch. This time, Beck swings.

They play like that for what feels like hours, using up every ball and then collecting them to start over. The pitches are nothing to write home about, but Beck is delighted every time she hits one. She can see the way Cali perks up, can see her muscles tense as she prepares to leap after every single one. It’s beautiful, and probably the most fun Beck has had in months.

They go until Beck’s muscles ache; she’s sure Cali must be feeling it too. And when they’re down to the last ball in the bucket this time, Cali holds out one lone finger, folds it down into her palm. _Last pitch._

Beck kicks at the sand under her feet, digging her heels in until she feels secure. The bat in her hands is warm from the sun, from her own body heat, and she feels _good._

Cali throws her last pitch. It’s perfect. It flies through the air like it’s on a string, designed to end up just in the center of Beck’s strike zone. She swings, heart racing at the resounding _crack!_ of the wood as it lands. The ball soars up, higher than Cali or even any outfielders would be able to reach; Beck watches it go.

And then she’s caught up in a hug, Cali lifting her off the ground and swinging her as she laughs and holds on tight. By the time she’s back on the ground she’s breathless, staring up at Cali in delight. Cali is staring right back, eyes bright.

They fall silent after a moment, surrounded by the liquid warmth of late spring. There’s nothing but the flowers, watching them, waiting for something Beck can’t name.

Cali stands just inches away from Beck. She reaches two fingers out and Beck holds out a palm almost immediately, waiting for whatever it is she has to say. But Cali ignores it, pressing her fingers instead against Beck’s lips.

Beck is caught by surprise and freezes at the contact, staring up at Cali in confusion. It takes far too long for her to realize what’s happened – and by then, Cali has taken her fingers away. She’s pressing them against her own chest, right above her heart.

\--

She carries the ash with her. The ash, Cali’s bat, the few bits of petals that remain; anything she can hold in her hands is there, but more of it slips with every step she takes.

She doesn’t have time to find the perfect place to bury it all. By the time she did, there’d be nothing left.

Beck drops down to her knees, fists clenched tight around what she still holds between her fingers. It isn't much. She’s done this so many times, by herself and with her team, it doesn’t matter.

It never stops hurting. It’s never hurt this much.

She doesn’t need a spade for this. Beck piles the ashes and petals into her jersey and holds it there as she digs with her hands. The feeling of the dirt under her fingernails is the only thing grounding her, the only thing she has to hold on to.

Beck doesn’t know how she finished the game. Couldn’t tell anyone if they asked. It’s a blur of tears and panic and pain, all rolled up in the bright halo of the sun hidden behind the moon. If she ever sees another ump in her life it will be too soon, though she knows it’s only a matter of time before this all happens again.

It takes minutes to finish it off. It doesn’t feel like enough. Beck searches for ways to keep herself busy; she makes flower crowns, builds a tiny cabin of sticks and twigs, weaves a blanket of long, thin grass. None of it feels like enough, but she tries. She tries until she can’t, until the sun has set and she’s worn down to the bone.

And then she sleeps, curled in a ball on the ground beside it all.

\--

The Groundskeeper is the one who finds her. Or that’s who Beck thinks it is, anyway. It’s hard to tell through all the plant detritus, through the dirt and mud. It’s early morning, the sky gray with the coming sunrise, and they’re sitting in the dirt beside her.

She’s got flowers in her hair, Beck realizes. They drift down to the ground as she sits up.

“I see we’ve buried another,” The Groundskeeper says, deep voice ringing in Beck’s ears. “And such a beloved one, too.”

“They all are,” Beck rasps out.

“Not like this,” they say, and she swallows down whatever she might have said next. “You’ve done what you can. She was born of ash and dirt, and now she has returned to it.”

“She didn’t have to.” Beck can’t stop herself from tearing up, hard as she may try. It’s too early for this; it will always be too early. “She shouldn’t have had to.”

“Perhaps.”

Birds are chirping in the distance. Beck knows her teammates will be worried about her. She should have gone back long before now. Even as she realizes it, she can’t bring herself to move.

“There’s a new apprentice in your dugout this morning, Captain Whitney,” The Groundskeeper tells her. “Ze needs your help, likely more than Caligula Lotus does. The best you can do for her is to keep going. Make all of this worthwhile.”

“But what if it isn’t?” Beck asks. “What if it isn’t worth all we’ve gone through?”

“That is up to you to decide,” they say. “There is still more to come, I’m afraid. You will have to bear it out. The Flowers will be fine, Beck. And you will too, in time.”

It’s hard to know what to say to that. It doesn’t feel true, not really, although Beck knows better than to argue with the Groundskeeper. She goes for another question, one she’s not sure she wants the answer to.

“Will she grow back?”

No answer. They sit in silence until the rest of the team comes to find them, surrounded by birds and ash.

\--

The feedback comes. Beck doesn’t fight it. She’s tired, so tired; it’s a relief to feel it herself this time, to know the rest of her team is safe. She closes her eyes and opens them in the Dalé’s dugout. They all stare at her; she stares right back, willing herself not to cry.

\--

Sixpack Santiago takes it upon himself to show her around the yacht when they get back. It’s a massive, beastlike thing with more rooms than they could possibly move through in one day, and an alarming mass of people is celebrating something on the top deck.

“It might be a little bit of an adjustment for you,” Sixpack says, “but it’s a great time, really. Plenty of nice people and a lot to do. We can get some margs later, if you want?”

He fixes her with a look that’s becoming very familiar to Beck: equal parts hope and concern. Like she’s a peanut, and no one knows whether she’ll cause allergies or boosts.

“Maybe,” she says, even though she knows she won’t. “I’m pretty tired, though. I think I’d rather just go to sleep.”

“Oh! Cool, cool,” Sixpack says, and it’s clear he’s disappointed. Beck hates disappointing people.

“Rain check?” she tries.

He grins, wide and toothy. “Yeah, for sure! Absolutely. Hit me up whenever, _dalé_ , right? You’re part of _la familia_ now.”

He holds out a fist. She bumps it, somewhat cautiously.

“Uh. Could you show me where my room is?” she asks, forcing a yawn.

“Of course!” he says, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. “Right this way, _dalé_!”

Sixpack leads her up to one of the top levels of the yacht, an area away from the DJs and partying. He motions to a door with her name on a hastily-written sticky note, clearly pasted over “FOX.”

“We sent housecleaning up to get most of Hahn’s things,” Sixpack says. “There’s still a lot of Diet Mlountain Dew in there, but we tried to get some stuff to help you feel at home.”

He motions for her to lead the way. Beck pushes the door open and finds, well. Someone else’s room, for the most part. But there’s a small planter of flowers on the windowsill, and a Boston Flowers banner up on the wall. A small potted lotus flower sits on the nightstand.

“Where did you get all this?” Beck asks. She tries to keep her voice steady and is just barely successful.

Sixpack shrugs. “We asked your team! They said they’d be happy to send some things over to us for their captain. We did the same for Hahn, you know?”

Beck nods, stepping into the room. She wants so badly to be back with her team, in her home. But she doesn’t have the words to thank Sixpack for the gesture, wouldn’t be able to speak past the lump in her throat anyway.

“Well,” Sixpack says, clearing his throat. “Like I said, let us know if you need anything at all, Beck. We’re here for you.”

“Thanks,” she says, barely above a whisper. Her eyes are glued to the lotus flower, tinted pink at the edges.

The door clicks closed behind her; she doesn’t even look. She walks over to the nightstand and picks up the lotus pot, searching for any kind of sign or signal. It wouldn’t make sense, but stranger things have happened.

Her phone starts to ring in her pocket. Despite herself, she answers on the first ring.

“Hey, boss,” Margarito Nava says. “What’s the lineup for the game tomorrow?”

Beck bursts into tears.

“Geez, I know, I’m sorry,” Margarito groans. “I know you left it on a note here or something, but Nic and I can’t find it anywhere.”

“Nava,” Beck sniffs. “The lineup has never changed! It’s exactly the same, but put Fox where I normally go.”

“Well gosh, cap, if it’s that easy you should just come do it yourself,” Margarito says. Beck can hear Jacob and Nic arguing in the background, and what sounds like paper being thrown to the floor. “We’re hopeless without you.”

“I can’t,” Beck says. “I’m not- I’m on a _yacht_ in _Miami_ , Margo!”

“Oh, come on. You think you’re getting rid of us that easily?” Xe laughs, and it’s a little pained but Beck loves xir for trying. “No sir! You’re getting us to the playoffs, Whitney. Captain’s orders.”

Beck finds herself laughing, even as she swats away tears. She sits down on the bed and grabs a notepad from the nightstand.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s start from the top, then. Do you know the difference between a pitcher and a batter?”

Maybe, just maybe, they'll make it through this.

**Author's Note:**

> I am @leonstamatis on tumblr, and I am in the blaseball discord too - my name's Blink there. Feel free to reach out with any comments, thoughts, criticisms, etc. I'm all ears. And thanks for reading!


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